


Stage Lights Are Blaring

by Ravenesta



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Celebrity AU, F L U F F, Fake News - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Multimedia, Texting, Tweeting, essentially verbal shitposting, gratuitous amateur french, late night talkshow host
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9021028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenesta/pseuds/Ravenesta
Summary: What do you do when you've just taken over as host of a well-loved late night fake news show?Flirt with the United States Treasury Secretary, obviously.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all my thanks to @lesbianusnavi on tumblr who betad this for me a million years ago

* * *

 

“Hey! Hello! Hey!” John yells over the cheers of the audience, grinning wildly. Well, he certainly  _ hopes  _ it’s a grin, but with the anxiety turning in his stomach like shitty fast food, it could just as easily be a grimace. “Welcome to  _ Late Night!  _ My name is John Laurens. George King, your usual host, is away on assignment in England. He was supposed to be back by now, but we think he’s gotten lost in Buckingham Palace, so we’ll try to keep you updated on his status.”  

A small ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, and the sound does wonders for John’s nerves. He leans forward on the desk, smile relaxing into something far more genuine. He’d had his reservations about taking over the show (from George King, _George_ fucking _King,_ ) but there was never any chance he could’ve said no. He _lives_ for this.

“First tonight–and I know, this may seem like a daring move for my first gig–we’ll be looking at politics.” John sits back in the chair to watch the CNN news clip play. Thank  _ fuck  _ for the overdramatic Federalist party, for giving him an easy story for his first episode.

_ “Some controversy in the Federalist Party today after a video was leaked of Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton, using what some are calling ‘outrageous and inappropriate language’ to describe President Washington’s opponents during the 2012 election season.” _

“Yes,” John says, nodding soberly, “Secretary Hamilton, best known for his calm, articulate speeches,” here he uses the audience’s laughter to desperately try and control his grin, “was filmed during the 2012 presidential campaign complaining about actual human cockroach, Senator Charles Lee. Still, we’ve all dropped a few F-bombs in our lives, said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Can Hamilton’s ranting really be  _ that bad?” _

_ The show cuts immediately to the grainy footage, filmed from such an awkward position that only about half of Hamilton is in the frame. _

_ “Are you [BLEEP]ing kidding me? You’re telling me you’re gonna let this slimy piece of rotting dumpster-pizza talk [BLEEP] about you? He’s from Philly. [BLEEP]ing Philly! He’s [BLEEP]ing bankrolled by the racist [BLEEP]s at Wall Street–[BLEEP], remind me to show you the draft for the financial plan–and [BLEEP], he’s probably more qualified to be the White House [BLEEP]ing janitor than he is to be a politician! He’s a piece of [BLEEP] bigot, and if you’d just let me respond-” _

As the clip ends, the camera cuts back to John, whose eyebrows are up against his hairline, an incredulous smile on his face. “Holy shit,” he says, half-shocked, half-impressed. “First off,” he begins, “did he call Lee a ‘ _ slimy piece of rotting dumpster-pizza’ _ ? Hamilton, dude, it’s my first day, and you’re already doing my job  _ for me. _ ” He does his best to affect a mock-offended tone, but as the crowd begins to clap, a few loud whistles coming from the back of the room, he breaks into giggles, head falling onto the desk. As soon as the room quiets, John laces his fingers, saying, “Alright, sure, so Hamilton was a little crass, but all of the things he said about Lee were technically true. He even had the courtesy not to bring up the fact that Lee is actually just a giant, humanoid insect, masquerading as a politician. So what’s the big deal?”

_ The show cuts to a montage of news anchors and political advisors calling the clip everything from ‘inappropriate’, ‘damning,’ ‘scandalous,’ ‘career-ending,’ and from one Fox anchor, ‘America-hating.’ _

John raises an eyebrow skeptically. “‘Inappropriate? Sure, I guess, if you’re  _ five.  _ But ‘career-ending’? I mean, think about someone we all love. Benjamin Franklin! What was he like in private?”

_ An old clip of Benjamin Franklin, clearly drunk, talking to a room full of other politicians. “And these [BLEEP]ers, these pretentious little [BLEEP]s at universities are publishing all of these ridiculous research papers! The [BLEEP]’s next, huh? ‘Why do farts smell? Is there anything we can do about them?’ [BLEEP], wait.” Franklin (and the entire room) collapse into hysterical laughter. “No, [BLEEP] it,” Franklin hiccups, “I’m gonna write that. I’m gonna write that [BLEEP]ing paper and submit it to some pretentious French university. It’ll be [BLEEP]ing great.” _

When the camera cuts back to John, the crowd is practically roaring with laughter, and John himself isn’t far off. “We had that guy as our ambassador to  _ France!  _ For a long-ass time!”

* * *

 

* * *

 

He’s pretty sure he botched the interview with Sam Seabury. He’d seemed pleasantly surprised that John had actually read his book–he’d been on the show twice in the past, and George King had been notorious for not reading  _ any  _ of his guests’ material. He’d been less than pleased to find that John fundamentally disagreed with almost everything in it, to the point that they were half-yelling at each other by the time he got the signal to close out the show.   
The audience had seemed satisfied, though John doesn’t think Seabury will be back. It hardly matters; his journalistic aspirations are pointed directly at Fox News, so if he does end up reporting, it just means John will have a fun new target.

* * *

 

He can't quite bring himself to go on the internet, after the show, although everyone is quick to assure him that the response was largely positive. In Eliza's words: "Congratulations, the internet thinks you're adorable!"  

It's reassuring, but he still won't be able to touch the media for a while. He knows that there will still be some biting comments and criticism, and he knows that he’ll let it get to him. (Angelica knows it too; she confiscated his phone and deleted about half of his apps the day after he was announced as King's heir. He used the new space to download an audiobook.) 

Angelica doesn't technically work for Comedy Central anymore, but she's here tonight for moral support (far more for Eliza and Peggy, than for him) and she's scrolling through Twitter along with about half of the writers, reading off some of the more notable comments as John swivels in his chair, trying to work off the last of the frantic energy that had built up throughout the show. 

Angelica snorts. "Alexander Hamilton tweeted about you."

John brings the spinning chair to a stop so abruptly that Angelica swims in his vision. Hamilton was one of the more…  _ interesting _ figures in the public light, at the moment. George King had ignored years worth of material from the man in favor of fluff pieces, but John fully intended to use Hamilton's outbursts as often as possible. 

"What'd he say?"

Angelica grins as she reads, " _ 'Finally, a satire show with a host who actually understands how politics works.' _ "

John huffs a laugh. "Wow, glad I could meet his incredibly high standards, huh?" Privately, he suspects Hamilton's approval has more to do with the jabs at Jefferson and Madison they'd thrown in.

"You could have fucked up some pretty shitty jokes, and people still would have been happy. George King not knowing how American politics worked stopped being funny years ago," Angelica replies, without glancing up from her phone screen. While it's not particularly kind on the surface, it actually does quite a bit to reassure John that he didn’t  _ actually  _ bomb. He’s pretty sure Angelica is the only one who would've told him outright if he'd fucked it up. He looks over at Eliza to find her smiling at him, bright and infectious enough that he reflexively grins back. Eliza had been as reluctant to take the job of head writer (the old one had thrown a fantastically racist fit and stormed right out with King) as John had been to become the host, but everyone knows that she'd been chafing under  _ Late Night _ 's old format. He'd read all of her scrapped pitches religiously:  _ real  _ satire, sharp, biting, and brilliant.

As the newer hires, her and John had become fast friends, groaning as they put together immature, dumb fluff segments, and spending their free time quasi-writing sharp dream pieces on current events and anything remotely to do with the government that didn't rely on toilet humor. 

The Comedy Central higher-ups liked to pretend that there had been a serious consideration of all possible successors when  _ Late Night _ 's head writer left, but everyone knew from the start that the job was Eliza's.

Writing tonight's show had been a dream, performing it had been better, and John knew that it had left the entire cast and crew with a light, elated feeling that felt like it would hover in the studio for days.   
  
Or maybe it _was_ the shitty fast fast food.

* * *

 

  



	2. Chapter 2

The rumour started floating around the studio about two months after John took over: They were going to kick Burr out of the 9 PM slot. 

Long story short, the man was boring, unspeakably so. His show was marketed as an insightful, comedic look at the news and relevant issues of the day. In truth, he covered the news so clinically and objectively that most days, it made for a more accurate report than CNN. Any jokes he may have made fell tragically flat. Most of the show was spent on the interview, which had become known as the slot celebrities only book when they were  _ truly _ desperate. When John had been trying to reverse the nocturnal sleep schedule he’d developed during college, he'd bought a box set of season three and put it on to fall asleep at night.

One day at lunch, Herc asks, "Are you really surprised they want to kick him to the curb? The fucker's so afraid of making an offensive joke that he forgets to make jokes at all."

As far as John could tell, Hercules Mulligan had been dragged out of some hipster comedy club, dumped on Comedy Central's doorstep, and forced to audition, all by Peggy. John trusted Peggy's instincts, especially for investigative pieces, but he'd been, for lack of a better phrase, incredibly intimidated and extremely doubtful of their new hire.

Until he’d opened his mouth, and within about ten seconds, had apologized twice and made a terrible pun. 

And again, the next day, when he did a dry read of a correspondent's report which had everyone in the room hysterically giggling.

And the next week, when Herc had brought a kitten into work, apologizing profusely and rambling about how his cat-sitter was sick and she was too young to leave alone even with her mom and it wouldn't happen again, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone in the office (including John) was completely enraptured and not at all displeased with the tiny white ball of fluff that followed Herc around the office. 

The kitten's name was Horse, she was the runt of the litter, and allegedly, the only one Herc hadn't been able to give away. After some strategically placed litter trays and food bowls started appearing around the studio, Horse became Late Night's official mascot.)

"I'm not surprised they're kicking him out,"  John replies. "I mean, god knows the guy couldn't crack a joke to save his life.” Or express any other human emotion. “I'm just surprised that the brass has embarrassed him like this. I mean, nobody around Central knew that King was getting kicked until he told us, and that was like, three days before it got publicly announced."

Herc squints at him. "I thought King retired?"

John shakes his head, leaning forward conspiratorially and catching himself just before his tie takes a dip in his noodles. "That's what I'm saying, Herc! King sucked, and everyone knew it, and deep down, everyone knows that Central told him to pack up and leave, but they didn't tell anyone. It didn't leak, so King could tell everyone he was retiring, and leave with dignity! The fact that someone's let it slip with Burr means that they really have it in for him. Like, I almost feel sorry for him!  _ Almost. _ "  
  
Herc snorts down at his salad. "He must be feeling pretty pissed right now. You know, if he actually  _ does _ feel."

* * *

 

**_From:_ ** latenightofficialcc@gmail.com

**_To:_ ** jlauofficialcc@gmail.com, eschofficialcc@gmail.com, hmulofficialcc@gmail.com,  [ _ show all _ ](http://vicesandvipers.tumblr.com/tagged/late-night-au)

**_GUEST LIST FOR 6/22 THROUGH 6/25:_ **

_ MONDAY 6/22 - Angelica Schuyler and Susan Anthony _

_ TUESDAY 6/23 - Idris Elba _

_ WEDNESDAY 6/24 - Nicola Sturgeon _

__ THURSDAY 6/25 - Stromae  
  


**_NOTES FOR THE WEEK:_ **

 

  * __John is not allowed to talk to Stromae exclusively in French. No, not even on the show._ ** _Especially_** _not on the show. Nobody here can do subtitles, John.__


  * _INTERNS: Angelica has keys to the studio. Don’t freak out when she shows up in your break room and steals your food._


  * _Eliza is on cat-feeding duty this week._


  * _We have new interns. They are young and scared._ ** _Be nice._**


  * _BURR GETTING FIRED IS STILL A SECRET_ _._



* * *

 

They offer Peggy the slot.

They offer Peggy a  _ show _ .

_ The Schuyler Report _ , Mondays through Thursdays at 9:00 PM, immediately following  _ The Late Night Show _ . Peggy is a mix of uncontrollable energy and enthusiasm and a vague sense of guilt for all of three days before Eliza finally figures it out and reassures Peggy that none of them will feel betrayed by her leaving, and the rest of the crew is quick to concur (even Horse, who has taken to following Peggy around the studio, and sleeping on her whenever possible. This has been unanimously interpreted as an 'apology accepted.')

John is unbelievably excited. Yes, he's losing his best correspondent, and one of his sharpest writers, but  _ damn _ if Peggy doesn't need her own show. Besides, he's been thinking about asking Eliza to record a few of her segments, and this might be the push he needs to get her to agree.

He gets an email from a Comedy Central exec whose name he doesn't recognize that mentions something about ' _ hoping that previous ties between you and Miss Schuyler will foster some entertaining cooperation between your two shows.’ _ Meaning, of course, that Central expects him to use his unprecedented popularity to boost Peggy's show when it first gets on the air. It makes sense, and Peggy is his best friend, so he was going to do it regardless, even if getting a "subtle suggestion" from the higher-ups just makes him directly want to defy them.

Out of pure spite, he emails back, " _ so if you mean are we gonna crash each other's shows like. all the time, then yes, that is absolutely gonna happen. _ "

* * *

 

The schedule, as Peggy says it's been presented to her, is this:

Sometime in the next week, Burr will announce that he's leaving the show. He will stay on the air as usual for about six more months, giving Peggy and her new showrunners time to get  _ The Report _ up, running, and appropriately branded and advertised. Finally, Burr leaves, Peggy takes over after winter break, everyone at home has an awkward adjustment period where they get used to not immediately turning off the TV when  _ Late Night _ is over, and everyone at Comedy Central will fall into their usual routine, minus one shitty show, and plus a new, promising one.

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It starts off as a joke. _Mostly._ Literally! He uses it as a joke on the show, at first ad-libbing a few “But damn, look at his _hair!”_ comments whenever a picture of Hamilton inevitably gets used as a segment graphic, and later, worked into the actual writing of the pieces, and before he knows it, he’s gaining vague infamy as the comedian who consistently talks about how attractive Alexander Hamilton is. And _really,_ he _is_ attractive, so it’s no great trouble to exaggerate a bit for the cameras.

(People apparently find his sexual ambiguity hilarious, so they take the opportunity to expand their ongoing “John’s dad thinks he’s a lawyer” joke into “John’s dad thinks he’s a _straight_ lawyer,” which inevitably leads to the piece where John looks at the camera and tries to say “Ah, yes. Boob, and, uh, the vulva. Girls.” with a straight face, before he collapses into hysterical laughter on the desk, and ends up half-wheezing “Oh god, I am too gay for this shit.” There isn’t _too_ much public backlash, mainly because apparently, it surprised almost no one _.)_

Their pieces provoke some sort of response from Hamilton, more often than not, generally consisting of just a snarky quip or string of emoticons. There’s the occasional rant of over 50 tweets, which leaves their poor intern in charge of social media shaking and confused, and the entire writing room in fits of laughter.

He has, up until this point, always tweeted the official Late Night account.

Up until the point that John opened a segment with the sentence, _“And now on to Secretary Hamilton, who has the best ass in the White House, as long as you ignore Thomas Jefferson’s face.”_

Now, a tweet to his _personal_ account? That, as far as John is concerned, is grounds for a direct response.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Hamilton starts… well, he’s not really sure if it could be termed flirting.

He starts actually tweeting John’s account though, with real responses and some questions about things John says. Or, well, generally it’s just stupid pictures.

He sends John an uncaptioned picture of himself staring, dead eyed, into the camera, with Thomas Jefferson very obviously mid-obnoxious speech in the background. John responds with a similar selfie, best “ _can you fucking believe this shit_ ” face on with the entire writer’s room halfway to Battle Royale behind him.

Hamilton sends him several pictures throughout the week of various White House officials, all with frankly ridiculous expressions, and John responds by zooming in on the faces as much as he can, and sending them right back.

This is, he thinks, totally grounds for a friendship.

* * *

 

Sam Seabury–being racist, sexist, homophobic, Islamophobic, xenophobic, and any other -phobics that have more to do with hatred than fear–is Fox News’s wet dream, and John isn’t surprised in the slightest when they practically give him half the network.

Within a week, a few snide comments from John provokes bitter rage from Seabury, provokes an entire segment dedicated to disproving almost everything Seabury has ever said.

He can feel the start of a beautiful rivalry.

* * *

 

Martha is the only family he has that he still keeps in touch with, and for her birthday, he buys her tickets to a new musical that she’s been texting him non-stop about for the last couple of months. He picks her up at the airport, and she ends up sleeping through most of Friday morning, but by noon, she’s ready to drag him around New York like a hyperactive puppy.

An hour or so into their excursion, it’s clear that none of the Laurens children should never have been allowed to leave home, much less be given access to a credit card. The shopping bags crowd around John’s feet at the cafe table, most of them bearing the bright designs of generic tourist merch shops, and he’s not exactly proud of the fact that only about half of them belong to his sister. Martha has disappeared somewhere, and it’s even odds whether she’ll come back with more food, or another souvenir.

John, for his part, is sipping his coffee, absently scrolling through his twitter feed.

His tweet from Hamilton today is a selfie, with Hamilton wearing shitty pink sunglasses, making a peace sign and a duck face at the camera. The picture is overlaid with neon green comic sans text, reading ‘ _HEY FROM D.C._ ’, and it makes John grin, laugh quietly into his hand. He quickly sends back a string of appreciative emojis, puts his phone back in his pocket.

He glances around the cafe, looking to see if Martha’s back, and his eyes linger on the rack of postcards by the door.

The cheesiest one he can find is a generic shot of the Statue of Liberty, with a bright yellow, curvy font reading “Greetings from New York!” A quick search turns up the White House address. The search for a working pen is less successful, and he ends up having to buy an overpriced American flag one from the counter.

* * *

 

_Secretary A. Hamilton_

_The White House_  

 _1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW_  

_Washington, DC 20500_

**_A. Ham_ **

**_Wish you were here!_ **

**_love,_ **

**_J.Lau xxxxx_ **

* * *

 

It’s completely a joke. __Totally.__

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Martha’s short enough that she has to stand on John’s shoes to hug him properly at the airport, arms wrapped around his neck and face buried in his shoulder. They don’t pull away until her flight is boarding, and there are wet patches on John’s hoodie, and tear tracks on both of their faces, which they absolutely do not mention, because good siblings only give each other shit for crying when it’s during a sappy movie, or at the ASPCA commercials with the sad animals. 

She squeezes him one last time, hard enough to bruise his ribs, and her voice is only wavering a little when she says, “Bye, Jackie. Don’t you dare forget to text me, or so help me I will send Peggy to your apartment to make sure you’re not dead.”   
  
John politely refrains from mentioning that Martha is both younger and shorter than him, mainly because he’s crying so much that he literally can’t say anything. He waves as Martha’s boarding, and they both look like blubbering messes. Between Martha’s stuff at university in California and John’s work, they probably won’t see each other again this year until Christmas, if at all. Which, well, it’s not as if this is a  _ new _ thing. When John was in college, half the time, he  _ avoided  _ coming home for the holidays, even if it meant a stretch of almost two years where he didn’t see Martha face to face.

The bathroom mirror confirms his suspicions: his face is horrific, red, puffy, and tear streaked. He’ll probably just cry some more while eating ice cream and watching terrible movies when he gets home. 

As he’s leaving the airport, he gets a text from Martha reading ‘ _ tfw ur flight wont take off bc some old lady is wheezing and probably dying or smth’  _ with an attached picture of a drenched, furious looking cat. John grins.

It’ll be fine.

* * *

 

“Well, for more on this story, I’d usually turn us over to Peggy. However, seeing as she’s got the sniffles today, we’ve sent out the most qualified substitute for the job: live from the Vaguely Middle East, we’ve got Temporary Senior Intern Correspondent Fitz Kennedy, everybody! Hey, Fitz, how are you doing out there?”   
  
The screen switches to Intern Fitz, cowering in front of a green screen desert. His face is covered in dirt, his poorly fitting suit is ripped to shreds, and there are sounds of gunfire in the distance.   
  
“I’m doing great, John!” Fitz says earnestly, voice obviously shaking and jumping octaves. There’s a slightly louder gunshot, and Fitz squeaks. “You know,” he amends, “aside from the whole, active warzone thing.”

John waves him off with a smile. “It’s fine, Fitz. Hey, this will be great to list as experience in your chosen field!”   
  
Fitz gives the camera an incredulous look. “Uh, John, sir, you do know I’m a theatre major, right?”

“Right. Exactly! Anyways, tell us about the situation down there.”   
  
Fitz shifts, looking around. “Well, uh, there’s a lot of... fighting. People are shooting at each other. I don’t know why, exactly. I don’t know if  _ they  _ know why. A lot of them look the same? I don’t know how they know which people to shoot at. Some of them are American, I’m not sure what side  _ they’re _ on. I think they’re just shooting everyone. I’m really scared– _ shit. _ ”   
  
There’s a loud gunshot, and the footage cuts. John leans forward on his desk. “Fitz? Intern Fitz? Uh, sorry, folks, we seem to be having technical issues, we’ll see if we can get him back...” He pauses and puts two fingers to his ear, and pretends to listen to a radio that is clearly not there.

He nods, frowning.    
  
“Ladies, gentlemen, and all variations thereof,” he begins somberly, lacing his fingers together, “we are sorry to announce that Temporary Senior Intern Correspondent Fitzgerald Kennedy has been shot and killed. Intern Fitz died doing what he loved: being afraid of everything that moves. He will be dearly missed.”

The audience has been, up until this point, laughing and making a few “awww”s, but abruptly they start cheering, with a few squealers towards the back.   
The camera pans out to show Intern Fitz stumbling towards the desk, pure rage on his face.   
John gasps. “Intern Fitz! You’re  _ alive? _ ”   
Fitz tears off his clip-on tie and slams it down on the desk. “I’m  _ done _ !” he yells, the obvious crack in his voice completely removing any emphasis it might have had. After a moment, he adds more quietly, “Uh, Mr. Laurens, sir.”

John does his best to look hurt, while also trying not to crack up. “Done?” he echoes.    
Fitz’s squeaky voice never really got past the ‘constantly breaking and changing’ stage of puberty, and when he’s upset, it sounds like he’s constantly on the verge of tears. It serves him  _ very  _ well when he starts to rant.

“Yeah, done! I mean, being an intern is one thing. I can handle carrying stacks of paperwork as big as my head and trying to reply to Hamilton’s tweets and photoshopping creepy politicians’ genitals and paying people to bring me food because I can’t go in the break room because the cat is in there, but you just sent me into a  _ battlefield!  _ The only reason I’m  _ alive  _ is because for  _ some reason,  _ all the correspondents have bulletproof ties! So, Mr. Laurens, uh, sir, if I’m gonna stay here, I’m gonna have to give you an ultimatum. Either, uh, I get a promotion, or I’m gonna  _ leave! _ ”   
  
The crowd starts “aww”ing Fitz, with a discordant bunch of yelling that basically amounts to “look we know he’s not gonna leave, but this kid is adorable just give him what he wants already you monster”. John taps his chin, giving the proposition serious consideration.   
  
“Alright,” he says after a moment, nodding, “you’ve got yourself a deal. From now on, you’ll be  _ Permanent  _ Senior Intern Correspondent. Welcome aboard!”   
  
Fitz lights up. “Does this mean I get paid?”  
  
“ _ Absolutely not _ . Oh, and you might wanna keep that tie. Fitz Kennedy, everybody! We’ll be right back.”

* * *

 

He hasn’t invited Hamilton to appear on the show. A couple of their producers have suggested it, but John turned them down flat.

It’s not that he doesn’t  _ want  _ to. Quite the opposite–the opportunity to actually  _ talk  _ to Hamilton, try and figure out his thought process, get a glimpse of the drive that allows the man to produce words at a frankly  _ alarming  _ rate, is more than a little appealing. 

It just seems presumptuous, to ask the man to take time out of his apparently neverending work to come to New York and appear on John’s show, when their only prior interactions have been John’s pseudo-flirting live on national television, and an exchange of ridiculous pictures over twitter. Most of their guests are  _ looking  _ for public attention, are promoting books or bills or movies, and have P.R. agents who do the arranging of time and dates and requests and such for them.

It’s not even that he thinks Hamilton would say  _ no,  _ even though he’s never actually been on a late night show thus far. 

Well, maybe it’s that he’s afraid that he  _ will  _ say no, and this tenuous  _ thing  _ they’ve got will be broken, and he’s not willing to admit how attached he’s become to his exchanges with Hamilton, and he’s  _ also  _ not willing to face the fact that it probably means jack-shit to the man himself. 

This self-psychoanalysis stuff isn’t really John’s strong point.

* * *

 

“On the other hand,” Eliza argues over a luxurious lunch of granola bars and stress,  “if you have him on, Thomas Jefferson might agree to come on out of sheer spite. You could tear him to pieces.”

John nearly caves at that.  _ Nearly. _

* * *

_ A panel on Fox News containing several shouting conservatives, the loudest of whom is Samuel Seabury: _ _   
_ _ “This is just another ploy by the militant homosexual community to- to- to invade our privacy, and force their Gay Agenda down our throats! It’s outrageous, it goes against-” _ _   
_ _ Punctuated by a fist slammed on the desk: _ _   
_ __ “Fundamental. American. Values.”

When the camera cuts back to John, he stares, gaping, for a few seconds. It took him a while to get a feel for the audience, get the right sense of comedic timing and expression, so that silences didn’t become awkward, or make a joke fall flat. As the crowd’s laughter dies down, he starts abruptly forward, leaning on his forearms. He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, eyebrows scrunching together in concern.

Eventually, he squints, and asks in a stage-whisper, “What edition of the Gay Agenda do you have?”

“Listen,” he says, waving down the audience’s laughter with one hand, and reaching under his desk with the other, “I haven’t gotten the updated edition. They usually send you a free copy, but I guess since moving to New York I forgot to update my address, so I’m probably a couple years out of date.” He freezes. “Shit, they’re getting sent to my dad, aren’t they?  _ Shit.”  _

He shrugs, and pulls out a large sheet of glossy paper, folded into a book. “Anyways,” he continues, “they’ve never really changed that much between editions, so let me just… check…”   
  
He opens the ‘book,’ examining its contents for a moment, while the audience laughs at the “GAY AGENDA” scribbled on the front page in silver sharpie. He turns the book around, pretending to check the back page, and a new surge of laughter makes its way through the crowd. On the inside pages, in black sharpie, are the following:   
  
**STEP 1:**

**Be gay**

**STEP 2:**

**Good job!**

As the crowd quiets, he closes the book, sliding it off to the side. As he starts speaking, he adopts what Peggy calls his ‘Serious John’ voice.

“Look, Seabury. I respect you. I respect your show.” He takes a moment to stifle a gag. It’s only mostly a joke. “However, I think you’ve misunderstood the whole ‘gay agenda’ thing. Now, again, I’m a little out of date here,” he makes a gesture in the direction of the discarded paper, “and for all I know, we’re now supposed to be waging war on the American lifestyle, or chickens, who knows. Last time I checked, though? We just want to do our thing. You know, date, marry, be very tense during tax season, get into fights over which family to go to during holidays, get into bigger fights because your in-laws are really bitchy, have great makeup sex, convene for the annual rituals, get a dog, that sort of stuff. 

“Asking for gay marriage isn’t forcing our will and ideology down your throats; this is us, sticking our fingers down _our_ throats, trying to trigger our gag reflex so that maybe, we can get _your_ ideology out of _ours!”_

He leans back in his chair with a sigh.

“Oh, and if someone could get me the updated edition of the Agenda? That’d be great. We’ll be right back.”

* * *

 

The picture is an open binder. The paper in it reads, in scrawling writing:   
  
**STEP 1:**

**BE GAY ✔**

**STEP 2:**

**GET ON TV ✔**

**STEP 3:**

**GET INTO THE WHITE HOUSE ✔**

**STEP 4:**

**?????**

**STEP 5:**

**PROFIT**

**STEP 6:**

**WORLD DOMINATION**

John has no clue how Alex hasn’t been fired yet.


	5. Chapter 5

**_From:_** latenightofficialcc@gmail.com

 ** _To:_** jlauofficialcc@gmail.com, hmulofficialcc@gmail.com, eshcofficialcc@gmail.com, [](http://vicesandvipers.tumblr.com/tagged/late-night)_show all  
  
_

**_GUEST LIST FOR 11/9 THROUGH 11/12:_ **

_ MONDAY 11/9 - Sir Patrick Stewart _

_ TUESDAY 11/10 - Thomas Paine _

_ WEDNESDAY 11/11 - Abigail Adams _

__ THURSDAY 11/12 - Secretary Alexander Hamilton  
  


**_NOTES FOR THE WEEK:_ **

 

  * __Reminder that Horse is not allowed in the interns’ break room, as Intern Fitz is allergic.__


  * _Intern Lyndon is on cat-feeding duty this week._


  * _CRASH COURSE U.S. HISTORY DOES NOT COUNT AS RESEARCH._


  * _Don’t tweet mean things at Burr. He’s weak, and can’t defend himself. It’s just cruel._



* * *

 

A few hours after he gets the weekly staff email on Sunday, John is curled up under the table in the conference room, with all of the lights off, and blinds drawn. 

This has nothing to do with the contents of the email itself, of course.  

He’s had a migraine building for the last few days, and trying to pick through the contents of another global convention for tomorrow’s show had turned a stress-headache into a small monster that was picking viciously at the contents of his skull. Even after he’d downed the strongest painkillers he could find in the communal medicine cabinet, the computer screens had started to feel more like little knives poking at his eyes, and the sunlight coming through the office windows had become unbearable. Every footstep in the office sounded like it was amplified tenfold, and his brain felt like the shakeweight that Intern Michelle inexplicably kept in the office. So, he’d found the nearest lockable empty room, shut off the lights, and was now lying in the fetal position with his hands pressed to the sides of his face, wondering idly if he could pay one of the interns to smother him with a pillow.

The painkillers hadn’t worked, because they never worked, because John’s body hated him vehemently. It was probably payback for all of the all-nighters during college.

So, instead of thinking about drafting up the final scripts for the pieces tomorrow, or that despite the fact that John had to approve any guests that appeared on the show, Secretary Hamilton had  _ magically appeared on their roster that week,  _ he was instead internally debating the merits of sleeping off a migraine on the floor.

_ There’s a couch in the breakroom,  _ a perfectly reasonable part of his head argued.  _ It would be more comfortable than the floor. _

_ That requires movement,  _ came the emphatic, groaned response from the rest of it.

_ Yeah, fair enough. _

The matter settled, John promptly fell asleep.

* * *

 

**UNKNOWN:  
** hey, i was told this was john laurens number? -a.ham

**LAURENS:  
** WOW yeah its me  
Sorry i was asleep  
who  
exactly  
gave you my number?

**A. HAM  
** “its a secret” apparently

* * *

 

It was Peggy, obviously.   
Herc tells him the full story over dinner in the writer’s room, as they sift through the final script for tomorrow, punctuated with comments from Intern Jaime, who is flitting about, patting them both down with flint rollers, still determinedly on their doomed mission to get Horse’s fur off of everyone’s clothes. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Peggy knows his laptop password, or his email login. 

He  _ is  _ surprised when Herc tells him that it was her idea of a going-away gift, not least because he thought that sort of thing was supposed to go the other way around.   
  
He’s so caught up in panicking about the Hamilton interview that he almost doesn’t notice the package on his desk. It’s wrapped in Christmas paper, for some unfathomable reason, with an orange post-it note on the top reading “Sorry for keeping your boyfriend’s visit a secret!!!” in Peggy’s curly handwriting.

Inside, he finds a neon pink tank top, which says " **_HOT MESS EXPRESS_ ** ” in bright yellow comic sans. It’s  _ hideous. _

All is forgiven.

* * *

“Hi! Hello! Good evening!” He’s taken to finger-gunning at the camera as it swoops across the studio at the beginning of the show. “Hey, welcome to  _ Late Night,  _ I’m John Laurens! We’ve got a good one tonight. Our guest is an actor and human being so incredible that I’m not actually gonna tell you who it is, because I’ll just be a horrific disappointment in comparison.”   
He waits a few beats, while  _ “HOLY F*CK, PATRICK STEWART IS ACTUALLY HERE”  _ flashes on the screen in front of him. 

“First, though, you probably heard about the conference that took place in Paris this weekend.”

_ A classical style painting of white guys around a desk appears in the corner of the screen. _ _   
_   
“No, dude, that was the other Paris Peace Conference. That was in 1919.”   
  
__ The picture switches to a different painting.

“Pretty sure that’s the Treaty of Paris, that was in  _ 1784 _ .”

_ Different painting. _

“ _ Oh come on!  _ That’s the fucking  _ Treaty of Versailles!  _ That wasn’t even in  _ Paris!” _

More and more paintings and pictures fill up the screen, and John starts waving frantically, trying to be seen, and yelling “What the  _ fuck,  _ why are there so many conferences held in fucking  _ France? Jesus Christ,  _ surely your air mileage covers  _ anywhere  _ else, fucking  _ anywhere,  _ go to fucking  _ Texas  _ for all I care!” _   
_ _   
_ At last, the picture switches to the light green logo of the Paris Peace Conference. They spent about half an hour yesterday just throwing around what they thought it could possibly be, because seriously, what the  __ fuck. John thought that it was an overly stylized ‘2015,’ Eliza had suggested a leaf, and Herc was adamant that it was a depiction of oral sex.

“Now, this conference was boring as all fuck,  _ believe me.  _ It was your typical ‘let’s all get together and talk about how all of the countries that aren’t us are fucking up real bad, and do absolutely  _ nothing  _ about it’ conference. I mean, it’s basically everyone getting together for winter break!” He leans forward, speaks in a loud mock-whisper. “Hey, uh, guys? Can I tell you a secret? If I’m not running a fucking  _ country _ , and  _ I’m  _ not allowed to take most holidays off, maybe you should reconsider your little vacation!” He coughs, trying to look inconspicuous, while a banner reading “ _ Hey Comedy Central Please Can You Email Us Back About Contract Negotiations Please Stop Ignoring Us Pretty Please _ ” covers most of the bottom half of the screen.   
  


“So!” He leans back, claps his hands once. “Who’ve we got on the red carpet this time around? Oh, lovely, President Washington, dashing as always, accompanied by Secretary Jefferson looking simply  _ resplendent  _ in his… cardigan. Ah.” He takes a few extra moments for him and the audience to be appropriately disgusted before moving on, as the next world leader flashes across the screen..   
  
“We’ve also got President Auguste of France, in, I shit you not,  _ thigh highs,  _ as well as Spanish president, Charles Diego in what can only be described as, uh, homeless elf attire. So, with all of these  _ characters,  _ who was the media star?”

_ The show cuts to the tail end of a CNN clip, with a peppy female anchor speaking. _ _   
_ _ “-But stealing the show this weekend was French President Louis Auguste’s aide, the Marquis de Lafayette. The young aristocrat’s ‘selfies’ with a number of world leaders went viral on Twitter almost overnight, as well as some candids taken by journalists during the conference, and you can see these here-” _ _   
_ __ The picture shows Lafayette, a young man in a waistcoat and what appear to be skinny jeans, grinning wildly as he shakes a bemused President Washington’s hand. Even without video, it’s clear that he’s more or less jumping on his toes, and his ponytail is bouncing in wild directions.

No matter how many times he sees these pictures, they still make John break out into that little high pitched giggle that has him bent over his desk, laughing into his hands. Eventually, he catches his breath enough to lean forward conspiratorially, eyes shifting from side to side before he says, “Alright, I fucking _ love _ this guy. I mean, look at him!”    
  
_ The screen starts cycling between Lafayette’s pictures from the conference. Lafayette is almost comically shorter than President Diego, who looks profoundly uncomfortable with having someone this close to his person. Most of the other world leaders just look at him like he’s an excitable puppy. In the pictures from during the conference itself, he’s leaning forward, chin balanced on a palm, still grinning at everything, and a brilliant contrast to the stone faced President Auguste beside him. _

“He’s having the time of his _life!_ I’m not even sure the dude knows English, or has like, _any_ idea what’s going on, I think he’s just happy to be there!”  
  
“Apparently though,” he begins, as soon as the room is quiet again, “not only does having an archaic aristocratic title give you free leave to just follow the French president around global peace conferences, it also has a couple of other interesting _perks._ Because we looked him up, and this guy’s full name is, I shit you not:”  
And John is, in that moment, intensely grateful for his father’s thousand business trips to France, and his Aunt Anne, because he’s the only person in the office who can pronounce this guy’s name. “‘ _Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette, Marquis de La Fayette_.’ That is about _fifteen_ names too many.”

* * *

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The biting November air hits John like a slap to the face as he steps out of the convenience store, groceries in tow. His wool coat sits warm and heavy on his shoulders, and he has the blue scarf Martha knitted him last year wrapped around his neck, but his nose and cheeks are already going numb, so he sets a brisk pace down the street, bags knocking against his thighs with each step.    
  
Cities are never  _ really  _ quiet, especially at eight in the evening, when quite a few places are just opening up for business. John, however, lives on a street that’s mostly tall apartment buildings, with just a few stores spilling harsh fluorescent lighting out onto the sidewalks. There are gaggles of people on the streets, most of whom appear to be tourists, but nobody is speaking above a murmur within their groups, and John gets the feeling that they sense the same little bubble of peace, the muffled sounds of cars, voices, music, surrounding them somewhere in the distance, that’s as close to  _ real _ quiet as this place is ever going to get. 

He pauses in front of the drugstore when his phone chimes in his pocket; Liza is staying late after tonight’s show, polishing what they have of tomorrow’s script, and she’ll probably hit him with a few questions about line delivery, or pictures of Horse doing things, throughout the night. As he’s tapping out a quick reply, he distantly registers the guy on the other side of the sidewalk, also squinting down at his phone. With his face distorted by the shadows and the faint blue glow of the screen, it takes John a few seconds to realize why he seems familiar, but when he does– 

“Secretary Hamilton?”

Hamilton startles, head snapping up, and John barely stifles a laugh. He’s helped to photoshop Hamilton enough to know that he’s a slender man, but the jacket he’s wearing is so padded that he’s been puffed up to almost twice his size, like a bird with ruffled feathers. Despite this, and the scarf wrapped around his neck and most of his mouth, he’s visibly shivering, and his nose and cheeks are clearly bright pink, even in the dim light. Hamilton’s childhood in the Caribbean had clearly done him no favours, when it comes to facing East Coast winters.

“Mr. Laurens?” he asks, voice muffled, reaching up with a gloved hand to tug his scarf down. Since the Seabury disaster, the crew have been drilling the practice of ‘being  _ polite  _ to guests’ into John almost non-stop, so he automatically holds out his hand, and Hamilton shakes it with a smile. 

“I didn’t really expect to see you ‘til Thursday,” John says, “and even then, I figured you’d probably be working in the green room five minutes before the show.” He’s only half joking; last month, Hamilton announced a collaboration with Senator Warren on education reform, and since then, he’s pushed out fifteen proposed bills, five speeches, two addresses to Congress, one  _ presidential  _ address, and about thirty thousand tweets, by Intern Fitz’s estimate. Once Hamilton has decided to do something, he seems to set up camp in the White House either until it’s done, or people start complaining about the smell.

Hamilton shifts, laughing uncomfortably. “Washington caught wind of my plans for Thursday, and sorta kicked me out of D.C. until Sunday. Apparently he wants me to ‘take a break, maybe get more than three hours of sleep for once in my life.’” His free hand flies up to make air quotes, and it’s accompanied by such a contemptuous sneer that John can’t help snorting. 

“To be fair,” John argues, “you kind of look like you haven’t closed your eyes in about four, maybe five years?”

Hamilton fixes him with a dead-eyed glare. “Sleep is for the weak and the dead,” he deadpans.

There’s silence for a few beats, and then they both abruptly start laughing, Hamilton shaking his head and smiling down at the ground, and John grinning at Hamilton.

* * *

 

By silent agreement they start walking, side by side, still in the general direction of John’s apartment. John doesn’t mind the cold, per-se, but at this time of year, and this time of night, stopping in the middle of the street to chat just isn’t feasible. Besides, he’s worried that if something doesn’t get Hamilton’s circulation going, he’ll just freeze.

“So, what’re you doing out at this time?” John asks eventually, and it sounds weird and cheesy even to his own ears. When he glances to his left, Hamilton is fixing him with a strange look, eyes bright and intense even despite the deep shadows underneath them. “Coffee,” he says, with a gravity that people usually reserve for topics like serious natural disasters. “There is nowhere within three blocks of my hotel that has  _ decent fucking coffee. _ ”

Now, realistically, it’s eight at night on a Monday, and John has groceries. He needs to be in the studio at about seven tomorrow morning, and he’ll be crabby at best if he doesn’t get a decent sleep. And  _ yet. _

“I know a nice place nearby,” he offers, shrugging one shoulder.

“Really?” Hamilton asks, sounding caught off guard. 

“Sure, it’s open late. Wanna go?”   
  
Hamilton seems to consider this for a moment, head cocked to one side like a dog. 

“So help me, John Laurens, you take me to a Starbucks and I’m getting the next flight back to Washington.”

* * *

 

Alexander Hamilton is a force of nature, with a captivating enthusiasm and energy that isn’t quite conveyed in the videos of his speeches. He talks with his hands and bounces on his feet, sometimes jumping ahead so that he can trot backwards for a few paces, facing John while he makes a point. John gets caught up in the energy, matches him beat for beat, and they’re still deep in discussion when they arrive.  

“It’s just–it’s frustrating, you know?” Hamilton says, as they’re stepping into the little cafe–empty, excluding what appears to be a study session-turned date between two college-age kids. “To walk by kids sleeping in the shadows of homes that have been empty since fucking ‘07 on my way to work!” 

John nods. “No, yeah,” he agrees, as soon as they’re both seated in a booth by the window. “It’s fucking disgraceful. And then people treat them like they’ve made the choice to be there, when really, they’ve been kicked out, or run away, and have no fucking clue how to get their lives back on track–and then people like fucking  _ Lee  _ propose ‘homeless spikes?’ It’s just,  _ ugh. _ ”

It’s warm enough indoors that they can both shrug out of their jackets, John’s tossed across the back of the chair next to him, and Hamilton’s life raft of a coat taking up more or less the entire other seat. John is still in the suit from tonight’s show, complete with skewed tie, at least two coffee stains, and white cat hair from his post-show cuddle with Horse. He’s self-conscious for all of three seconds before he sees that Hamilton is in a thin, ratty grey hoodie, and he’s probably come straight from his hotel.

Across from John, Hamilton slumps back into the chair. “ _ Ugh, _ ” he echoes, softly, but with feeling. “I am trying,” he says. “Warren is a fucking genius at slipping clauses into, like, the 37th pages of bills where nobody ever finds them, so we’ve been trying to ban the sort of shit Lee pulls, lay the foundation for a support system, help get some of these kids in school and make sure they have a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs, you know? But everyone’s really into the whole immigration thing right now, so it’s fucking impossible to get anything else done, I swear.”   
  
A kid that John thinks is named Kade is working tonight, and he has dark circles under his eyes that give Hamilton a run for his money–midterms, John really feels for him–but he still manages to get a black coffee and a latte to their table with almost alarming speed, before returning to the counter to disappear behind a textbook. 

The noise Hamilton makes when he starts drinking is  _ obscene,  _ and the only reason he doesn’t notice John’s cheeks burning is probably because he methodically sets the mug down, and gently sets his forehead on the table in front of him. John takes a sip of his latte, before leaning forward on his elbows, chin resting on his palm.

“Pretty good, huh?” John asks, allowing himself a smug smile. 

“ _ How, _ ” he whines, lifting his head off the table about an inch, before hitting it against the surface again. “It’s been nice, but I think I’ve gotta go back to D.C. to draft a bill that’ll make this illegal, I’m worried about the implications for humanity if this reaches the masses.”

John laughs, reaching forward to pat Hamilton’s head comfortingly. “I feel you, buddy. That stuff was my nearest and dearest companion during school.”   
  
Hamilton, still apparently committed to lying down on the table, turns his head so that he can crane to meet John’s eyes without getting up. “You went to college here?” 

The interest in his tone is a little strange, until John remembers that Hamilton went to Columbia, and Burr went to Princeton. He has the sudden impression that Wikipedia is too powerful, and should probably be banned.   
  
“Yep, NYU. I studied medicine, actually.” John pauses, before adding, “I was gonna be a paramedic.” He tries not to sound angry when he says it, because he’s not  _ really,  _ but he’ll probably always be a little bitter about it.

“ _ Wow.  _ That’s quite a career change. What happened?”

John’s gotten a lot of flack about not graduating, about going into the job he did, but Hamilton’s voice is plainly curious, without any malice, so he has to bite down on a defensive answer. It’s a question he usually brushes off, gives a nonspecific answer before changing the subject. Talking to Hamilton, however, feels strangely different. Open, exposed, like taking the bandage off of a cut that’s just closed over: not painful, but sensitive and a little raw.

“My, uh, my dad found out I wasn’t actually studying law, and stopped paying my tuition. I wasn’t working at the time, and I couldn’t really apply for any scholarships or financial stuff in time, so…” He trails off, shrugging one shoulder. 

Hamilton nods in understanding. Or, well, he’s still lying down, so it’s more like rubbing his cheek against the table, but John gets the gist of it. 

“So your dad  _ doesn’t  _ think you’re a straight lawyer.”

* * *

 

Hamilton is in the middle of a tangent on the Boy Scouts and John is most of the way through a blueberry muffin when the first drops of rain start to hit the window. They both freeze, John with his muffin halfway to his mouth, and watch for a few seconds as the light pattering quickly becomes a steady, and alarmingly heavy shower. They probably won’t see snow until January, but apparently, sudden rainstorms are fair game.   
The dead silence at their table is broken a few moments later, when Hamilton softly and forcefully hisses, “ _ Fuck. _ ”   


* * *

 

“My place is closer than your hotel.”   
  
“You think we can make it?”   
  
“Yeah, man. Besides, I’ve got a good shower and HBO.”   
  
“ _ Deal. _ ”

* * *

 

John isn’t sure who grabbed whose hand, but he’s definitely dragging Hamilton as they sprint down the street, grinning wildly, each of them carrying a grocery bag in their free hands. The rain is coming down hard and fast, soaking through John’s wool coat, and he’s pretty sure his socks are drenched as well. Behind him, Hamilton shifts his grip on John’s hand until their fingers are locked, and John barely hears his laughter over the pounding of the rain. John can’t bite back a shout of laughter either, and it sounds slightly hysterical to his own ears, but when he looks over his shoulder, Hamilton is still grinning at him, and John doesn’t think he imagines the squeeze on his hand. And so, John goes home on Monday night running madly through the pouring rain, laughing and dragging an overworked United States official in his wake.


	7. Chapter 7

The only sounds once they’re in the elevator are their labored breaths, and the quiet dripping from their clothes onto the marble floor. John would feel bad for whoever’s stuck cleaning up behind them, if he wasn’t busy trying not to laugh at Hamilton. His hair is absolutely  _ plastered  _ to his head and neck, giving him the effect of a drowned rat. His puffy jacket seems to have protected him from the worst of the rain, but inexplicably, he didn’t zip it shut before they left, so there’s a single wet streak down Hamilton’s front, and judging from the puddle around his feet, his shoes and socks are as waterlogged as John’s. The only reason John doesn’t give him shit for it is because Hamilton is eyeing John’s head with no small amount of trepidation, so it’s a fair bet that his hair is already mounting its dripping, puffy rebellion, and he’s in no real mood to be teased about it.

Hamilton takes a step closer to him, looking at John’s hair with a small grin. 

“Can I…?” He asks, trailing off, but the hand he’s started to raise makes the implication clear. John gives a noncommittal half-shrug, but after a few moments, nods. It’s not like Hamilton can make it any worse than it’s already going to be.

Hamilton reaches up and brushes his forehead, where a few loose strands of hair had settled, falling into his eyes, but not quite obstructing his line of sight enough that he had been bothered to move them. Hamilton’s attempt at combing the hair back is futile, but John lets him keep trying, partially because the expression of pure concentration on Hamilton’s face is strangely endearing, and partially because the scraping pressure of his fingers just feels nice. By the time the elevator reaches John’s floor, he’s more or less managed to convince the stray hair to curl at John’s temple, though it’ll probably spring forward again before he can get in the shower.

* * *

 

During college, and for most of his correspondent career at  _ Late Night,  _ John had stayed in a matchbox apartment near Broadway with two other students.  _ Apparently,  _ this isn’t an appropriate living arrangement for the host of a renowned satire show, and earlier this year, Comedy Central had gently suggested that he find a new place. 

(They’d shoved a blank check in his face and told him to find somewhere nice, or they would find somewhere for him.)   
  
As a result, John’s apartment is bigger and nicer than he knows what to do with, but hey, at least he’s popular during cast parties. A lot of the apartments Comedy Central had suggested had been built and designed with the Victorian Era clearly in mind, reminding him uncomfortably of his father’s estate back home. In retaliation, he’d gone with the most aggressively modern apartment he could find, all sleek dark furniture and open floors, and the absolute  _ coolest  _ fucking window he’d ever seen, floor to ceiling and curved, stretching across at least half of his living room wall, and considering that his apartment is almost on the top floor, the view of the city is  _ incredible _ . 

When John turns on the lights, Hamilton let out a low whistle. “Nice.”

Their coats are still slowly dripping onto the hardwood when John hangs them up, and their shoes aren’t much better, and he thinks that’s probably bad for the floor but he doesn’t really remember what the nice lady who installed his floor said, and he should maybe put down a rug or a bowl or something– 

By the window, Hamilton sneezes. It’s tiny and squeaky, and sounds like Horse asking to be fed.

_ Priorities, Laurens. _

“Hey,” he begins as he walks towards the kitchen, dumping his groceries on the counter, “the bathroom is over there, the first door in the hallway. There should be towels and shampoo and stuff. I can, you know, leave you some spare clothes outside the door.” Hamilton nods his thanks and starts towards the bathroom, but pauses in front of the door. 

After a moment, he gestures back towards the window. “Hey, John. That view is the same one you guys show behind your desk during  _ Late Night,  _ isn’t it?”

“Yep,” he confirms, with a soft smile that probably looks sappy and a little ridiculous, for the subject at hand. “Just wanted to keep a bit of home with me, I guess.”

Hamilton’s returning smile is odd, distant, a little wistful. “Yeah,” he says, sounding about a thousand miles away, but his eyes are still on the window, on New York buzzing below them. After a moment, he seems to shake himself, and disappears into the guest bathroom.

John waits until he hears the water start running before he pulls out his phone.

* * *

 

**LAURENS:  
** Alexander Hamilton is in my house  
Alexander Hamilton is in my SHOWER

**PEG PEG:  
** john you know i love you but there are things that i just do not need to know  
your sex life is one of them

**LAURENS:  
** Ok 1. N O peggy that is not whats happening here and 2. You tell me abt your sex life all the time thats what best friends DO

* * *

 

Finding clothes for Hamilton isn’t difficult. The man has all of an inch of height on him, and while John thinks he might be a little broader than Hamilton around the shoulders and waist, it’s nothing that would stop him from fitting into stretchy sweatpants and a t-shirt. He has a brief mental back and forth before adding a pair of boxer-briefs to the pile, just in case.

Bundle of clothes left in front of the bathroom door like a baby in front of an orphanage in a bad movie, John runs back to his bedroom, straight into the en suite bathroom, and begins the long and arduous process of peeling soaking wet clothes from his person. The hot water touching his skin is a god damn  _ religious  _ experience, and he lets himself stand for three minutes, slowly regaining the feeling in his extremities, before he remembers that there’s someone else who needs the hot water right now, and  _ no, John, no absolutely not stop thinking about that just wash your hair and get out.  _

He towels his hair as dry as he can when he steps out of the shower, but doesn’t bother pulling it back into a ponytail. It’s in a particularly uncooperative mood, so after combing it back with his fingers a few times, he gives it up as a lost cause and goes to put on pajama pants and a t-shirt. (The pants, like about half of the clothes he owns, are a gift from the Schuylers. They’re purple and flannel and so soft and comfortable that John’s pretty sure it’s a sin.)   
  
When he comes out of his bedroom, the water in the guest bathroom has stopped, and the pile of clothes has disappeared, but the light is still on and he can hear faint movement, so he shrugs and moves into the kitchen. 

John’s kitchen is his _baby._ He didn’t put much effort into decorating the rest of the apartment, but he’s pretty sure he spent about half a year’s salary refurbishing and equipping the kitchen. This is mainly because John, much to the absolute delight of everyone who works on _Late Night,_ is the food friend. He grew up in South Carolina and France. His mom taught him how to bake, and his Aunt Anne taught him how to cook, and even though his schedule means that his diet is about 80% granola and 20% hopes and dreams of a healthy meal, when it comes time for the studio potlucks, John _goes the fuck to town._

John’s groceries, still sitting sadly on the counter, consist primarily of garlic, pureed tomatoes, parmesan cheese, and vague intentions for cooking something nice at some point maybe this weekend if there isn’t some national disaster. 

Well, technically, there’s a walking national disaster in his bathroom right now, but John might as well make him a meal as long as he’s here.

* * *

 

John has used a lot of words to describe Alexander Hamilton. No, really, a  _ lot.  _

Loud, feral, loquacious, insane, playboy-worthy, excitable, puppy-like, phantasmagoric, Energizer bunny, freewheeling bisexual–you name it, John has probably used it in a segment about Hamilton.

He’s never called him  _ adorable. _

Hamilton, barefooted in a pair of slightly-too-big sweatpants and a t-shirt with a pop art turtle on it, hair tied up in one of John’s scrunchies, is absolutely fucking  _ adorable. _

John has exactly three seconds to think  _ well, fuck  _ before Hamilton asks, “You’re cooking?”   
  


He tries to push his  _ shit-I-think-my-fake-crush-turned-into-a-real-crush  _ crisis to the back of his mind, where he can freak out about it later, and just focuses on crushing garlic. “Yep. Spaghetti bolognese. Want some?”

Hamilton grins. “ _ Fuck  _ yes.” 

Alright, so John had been a little more picky about the layout of the apartment than he liked to pretend. This is most evident in the fact that the TV is more visible from the kitchen than it is from the sofa. So, when John grabs the remote to stick something on, it makes sense that Hamilton chooses to perch on one of the bar stools beside the counter. 

“Hey,” Hamilton asks, twisting slightly, “have you seen the weird Scientology documentary yet? I didn’t get the chance.”

John shakes his head. “Nah, me neither. Eliza loved it, though. We should watch it?”

“ _ Yes.  _ I’m always up for watching documentaries about creepy organized religions.”   
  
“Jesus Camp, huh,” John says.

“ _ Jesus Camp. _ ”

* * *

 

**LAURENS:  
** Think i could seduce him with food?

**PEG PEG:  
** almost definitely yes and you should absolutely try  
wait  
are you cooking for him  
that poor soul he doesnt know what hes about to eat  
people deserve to be warned before they taste your food

* * *

 

“Oh my  _ god, _ ” Hamilton honest-to-god  _ moans  _ around his fork. “Where do you even  _ learn  _ this?”

John laughs, and reminds himself to tell Peggy about this later.

“ _ Ma Tata-  _ my Aunt Anne taught me, when I stayed with her. She wasn’t really my aunt, now that I think about it but, you know.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. Hamilton studies him, something unreadable in his eyes.

“ _ Tu parles français, oui?” _

John nods, blinking in surprise. He wouldn’t have guessed that Hamilton spoke French. The accent doesn’t really sound like a high school learner, but it’s not quite native French either, and it’s _definitely_ not Quebecois. “ _Ouais,_ ” he replies, “ _tu parles aussi?_ ”

Hamilton nods, and he gets that distant look again. “ _ Ma maman me enseignait. _ ”

_ Oh.  _ Right, Caribbean, of course the accent sounds a bit off.

* * *

 

**LAURENS:  
** Peggy we just spoke for like half an hour in french and he looks cute in my clothes i’m fucked

**PEG PEG:  
** youre totes fucked   
youre welcome btw

* * *

They sort of end up cuddling.

After they finish the pasta they migrate to John’s couch, which is frighteningly large, but also L-shaped, so Hamilton ends up sitting right beside him to they can both stretch their legs out on the stick-out-bit. There’s a fair amount of space between them, up until the point that Hamilton gets  _ really  _ into a rant about conspiracy theorists, and in his wild gesticulating, whacks John in the shoulder. It’s not painful, and Hamilton doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s done it, but on reflex, John raises a hand and bats and Hamilton’s wrist in retaliation. This continues for a while, until Hamilton shifts so that he can toe at John’s leg, and yes, John Laurens, a twenty six year old grown man, is  _ absolutely  _ having a half-hearted slapping and kicking fight with Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton on his sofa at ten at night.

Or he was, until they both get tired of it, and then they’re still snarking at the Scientology documentary, but now Hamilton is basically pressed against John’s side, and his head is learning on John’s shoulder, and John can  _ feel  _ Hamilton speaking and it’s weird, but not unpleasant, because he seems to be a human space heater. 

Everything goes vague and blurry at some point, and John’s world at that moment feels limited to the enveloping warmth around him, and the low hum of Hamilton’s voice. He spares a thought to hope that he set his alarm for tomorrow before he drifts off.


	8. Chapter 8

“John!” Peggy says as soon as he picks up the phone.

“Murgh,” he replies, with all of the eloquence and clarity expected of his journalistic profession. His neck hurts like hell, his mouth tastes disgusting, he can’t feel his right arm because Hamilton is still sleeping on him, and oh yeah, it’s about nine in the morning and he’s late to work. At least his phone had been in arm’s reach.

Peggy asks “Have a good night?” and John does not at  _ all  _ appreciate that insinuating tone, mostly because she’s  _ wrong,  _ and at least a little bit because he sort of wishes she was right.

“Fight me, Schuyler.”

“I think you’ve got to  _ be  _ here first, John.”

“Ugh,  _ fine. _ ”

* * *

 

He manages to extricate himself out from under Hamilton with minimal effort, because holy shit, the man is out cold. John really should wake him up, he knows, but considering the President of the United States apparently kicked him out of the White House because he wasn’t getting enough sleep, John figures maybe he could stand to leave him a little longer. So, he’s gotten dressed and brushed his teeth, and is trying to tie his tie in the living room before Hamilton stirs, sitting up and blinking at him blearily. 

“You’re…?” He says, and it lilts up like a question, but he doesn’t seem sure how to finish it. John takes a wild guess. 

“Leaving, yeah, gotta go to work. I mean, Peggy would’ve called me earlier if anything important had happened, but Intern Lyndon is in charge of cat food this week, and he always cuddles with Horse when he feeds her, and then Intern Jaime tries to get all the hair off of him, and then he tries to fight them and I’m worried they’ll cry or get hurt or something and for some reason I’m the only one Lyndon will listen to, so.” He waves his hand in a ‘you know what I mean’ sort of gesture, despite the fact that he’s pretty sure exactly three words of that made any sense.

Even so, Hamilton nods in understanding. “ _ Interns, _ ” he mumbles, with feeling.

John nods. “ _ Interns. _ ”   
  
He thinks that leaving your acquaintances alone in your house without explanation is not exactly common courtesy, but doesn’t really know if he’s supposed to kick him out. Inviting him to the studio seems bizarre. And boring, for him, seeing as their writing process is about six hours of throwing shit at each other, and then two or so hours of frantically throwing shit at the wall and seeing what sticks. It sounds amateur, sure, but Comedy Central has hired some of the best shit-throwers there are. 

He notices that Hamilton is half-asleep again.

So, most other options ruled out, he gives a mental shrug, goes  _ fuck it,  _ and says, “I won’t be back until after the show tonight, but you can chill here, go back to sleep for a few hours. I mean, I figure you’ve got stuff you need at your hotel, so the key to this place is under the mat whenever you need.” Now, faking confidence is about half of John’s job, and he considers himself pretty good at it, but he’s sure that that entire thing came out unbearably awkward. Luckily for him, Hamilton doesn’t quite seem awake enough to notice. He just sort of smiles, mumbles something that sounds like it might be a thank you, and lies back down, reaching out blindly to grab a cushion to use as a pillow.

As he’s about to leave, he hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t like to leave the heater on all day, but…

Well, there’s a fuzzy blue blanket folded across the back of the sofa. John thanks every deity he can think of as well as a few superheroes that Hamilton doesn’t wake up when he drapes it across him.

* * *

 

Peggy’s love affair with neon colors allegedly started young. Eliza had told him the story: growing up, Peggy had been the shortest of the three Schuylers. She’d started wearing neon as a survival strategy, with her theory being ‘I might not be able to see shit, but shit is sure as  _ hell _ going to see  _ me. _ ’

This week, she’s gone with what can only be described as a traffic cone aesthetic, because  _ everything,  _ from her dress to her nails to her shoes, is  _ neon fucking orange.  _ Now, despite the fact that she has a visibility radius of approximately two meters in the dark, this is of no help to John, who is utterly unprepared for her to jump on his back as soon as he gets in the studio, nearly throwing him flat on his face. For  _ once,  _ he’s grateful that he grew up with about a thousand little siblings, because he manages to get her into a passable piggyback without embarrassing or severely injuring either of them. 

“Peg, oh my god,  _ why _ ,” he whines, despite the fact that he might as well ask the sky why it rained last night. These things just  _ happen,  _ usually to John. Peggy of course, doesn’t answer, just directs him to the break room, kicking his hips to spur him into movement for good measure. At least she’s taking him to the caffeine.

* * *

 

She interrogates him, of course, plying him with coffee and some of those fancy cookies from Trader Joe’s that they buy every week but are always gone by lunch on Monday. He manages to keep the exact nature of their sleeping arrangement private, but he’s pretty sure she still thinks they had sex. He’s not sure it’s a fair trade off. Really, what’s worse? Fucking, or accidental platonic-but-maybe-not cuddling? 

Liza saves him from his own best friend soon enough, which is maybe a bit pathetic, but he’ll take it. She drags them into the writer’s room so that he can approve the field piece she wrote for Peggy. It’s a good piece, but then again, Liza is a  _ very  _ good writer. She’s had, in John’s memory, only one dud, and two scripts that they didn’t approve, and they’ve pulled jokes and concepts from both of them. 

It’s a piece looking at harassment on the subway in NYC, a longer one that they’d put in tomorrow’s show, not tonight’s. Apparently they’ve already secured agreements from most of the experts that Liza wants to interview. John considers the script in front of him.

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, lacing his fingers together. Just to be safe, he puts on the Serious John Voice.   
  
“Liza.”   
  
“John?”   
  
“You know how Peggy tends to be very, uh, _ excitable  _ during interviews?”   
  
“ _ Yes. _ ”   
  
“And how these interview questions you’ve written fit a somber deadpan tone?”   
  
“Oh, I can rewrite them-”   
  
“ _ God no _ , they’re perfect. Look, Liza. You should really do this piece.”

Liza does a perfect impression of a deer caught in headlights, but it only takes a few moments for the self-preservation instincts to kick in. To John’s surprise, the argument only lasts about ten minutes, and it’s less of an argument and more of Eliza saying “No, I really couldn’t,” and John saying “But it would be so  _ good! _ ” back and forth until Intern Jaime comes in and figures out what they’re talking about, and essentially settles the deal by getting infectiously excited and wide eyed and asking Liza if she was really gonna do it and how incredible that would be.

John forgot that he could weaponize Intern Jaime’s puppy eyes.

He scribbles out Peggy’s name on the script and scribbles, ‘ _ head writer and  _ _correspondent_ _ Elizabeth Schuyler’  _ with a triumphant grin.

* * *

 

 

**A. HAM:  
** Hey man whats ur wifi password

**LAURENS:  
** peglegfryegg1776

**A. HAM:  
** Thx man  
Also  
Why the fuck are there so many boxes of fruit loops in ur pantry

**LAURENS:  
** listen i refuse to be interrogated by the government

* * *

 

Considering Peggy’s near-inexhaustible supply of sugar-powered energy, it’s not hard to convince her to take a run down to the nearest sandwich stop with everyone’s orders. As soon as the office doors swing closed behind her, the entire writing staff, correspondent team, most of the crew, and a sizable number of interns all pile into the conference room. It’s a tight fit, to say the least.

Eliza has unanimously been given the seat at the head of the oval table, and from there, it’s just a free-for-all to see who can get the closest to her. John ends up on her right, perched on Herc’s lap. Realistically, Herc would’ve given up his seat, but given that he’s a human-sized teddy bear, John’s content to share. On Liza’s left is their executive producer, Freddy, and hovering vaguely behind him is Intern Lyndon, holding Horse. He’s been waving Horse about at people for the last five minutes, which has been a surprisingly effective defence. Intern Fitz has been left to stand guard at the door, glaring balefully at Lyndon and sneezing periodically into a tissue. 

The room waits with bated breath as Liza reaches down and pulls a three inch black binder from her messenger bag. Written on the front and sides with metallic sharpie are the words ‘ _ BUDGET RECORDS 2012-2013’. _ It’s almost identical to the other binders strewn about the offices, dating back to around 2004, fundamentally useless now that they kept their accounts digital (and now that Comedy Central had given them very nice if incredibly boring people to do their money stuff for them.) This binder is almost identical, but for one little difference, that being its contents.

This is The Script.

There were now a little under six weeks away from Peggy’s final show, but she’d made them promise on the first day she knew she was leaving that there would be no surprises. A nice highlight reel, and a chat at the desk towards the end of the show, like they’d done for Angelica

Angelica had left a few months before John had taken over, but she’d had her send-off on one of King’s sick weeks, so he’d been handed relative control of the show, concerning what they were going to do to say goodbye. Now, the interview with Angelica had worked out, because they’d had a serious chance to reflect on what she’d done, and talk about the organization she was starting up, systems of shelters, people speaking out and organizing rallies, something  _ big _ . It was the right  _ tone _ , light hearted and reflective.

Now, John is Peggy’s best friend, and slightly somber, nostalgic interviews just aren’t how best friends roll. She’s moving on to bigger and better things, in a nice studio nearby that John plans on spending a _ lot _ of time in. So, naturally, the day after he’d promised not to surprise her with anything big, he’d shoved everyone in the same room and started planning something big. They’d draw up a mock script closer to the actual date, with relevant news stories and such, as a distraction, but in reality, they weren’t planning on covering  _ much  _ actual news that day. After the first commercial break, it was all going to become a big send off party, massive highlight reel and guest cameos which, with luck, would run until about ten minutes before show-end, at which point Peggy would get a move on to the new studio and her crew. They had a  _ few  _ more surprises planned after that.

John cracks his knuckles. “We ready to get started?”   
  
After a vague affirmation from the room, Eliza leans forward on her forearms. “Alright,” she begins, “do we know for sure whether we’ve secured the goat?”

* * *

 

* * *

 

“I mean, I’d say we should, I don’t know,  _ call  _ Secretary Jefferson and lodge a complaint, but I’m not sure the guy has a phone,” John says conversationally to the camera. “Do you think he knows what one  _ is?  _ Just listening to him talk, it sounds like he thinks we still live in the time of proud farmers individually plowing on the homestead, moving forward in the ‘Great American Frontier.’ He seems so  _ utterly  _ disconnected from the modern world, and the function of the government, I wouldn’t be surprised if his job could be done better by an actual  _ dog.”  _ He freezes.   
  
“No, wait, that might work.” He claps his hands together, and affects a manic grin. “ _ We turn him into a puppy. _ ” This earns some wild cheers from the audience, and John basks in his glory until Intern Fitz runs behind the desk and whispers in his ear. John puts on annoyance, echoing, “‘Not physically possible’? Come  _ on,  _ dude, what do I pay you for?”

Fitz makes a hasty retreat, yelling over his shoulder, “I’m an intern,  _ you don’t pay me at all _ !”

  
“ _ Fine _ ,” John grumbles, “we’ll just have to  _ replace  _ him with a puppy.”   


* * *

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure if he’s surprised when he gets home, and Alex is still sitting on his couch. He supposes it’s a mixture between the fact that he hadn’t expected him to be there, and a small part of him that had sort of hoped he would be. So, he gets home, and Alex is stretched out on his sofa, in different clothes, typing on a battered-looking laptop. John notices that the door to the guest bedroom is open, and there’s a large backpack on the vaguely rumpled looking bed.

John has never really loved coming home at night. His apartment is always big, empty, and dark, always feels sparse enough that it seems like he’s walking into a modern furniture catalog instead of an actual, lived in space. Tonight, though, the lights are already on, and there are a pair of sneakers abandoned haphazardly by the door. Alex’s jacket is hanging up on a hook by the door, where he left it last night, and Burr’s show is playing on the TV, volume so low that John can only hear quiet, monotonous sound. The cushions on the sofa are still a bit of a mess, and there’s a couple of bowls and a mug on the drying rack by the sink in the kitchen. It’s just a few things, but these little traces of Alex that have been scattered around his apartment, and the man himself, sprawled on the sofa, look so natural it’s almost bizarre. 

_ Wow, that’s a thought,  _ he thinks, and then quickly tries to forget it.

Alex smiles up at him, eyes distracted, before returning to the laptop screen. “Nice show tonight,” he says. “It pissed off Thomas.  _ Wonderful _ .” 

High praises, coming from him. John has to stop himself from beaming. “Thanks, man,” he says as he ditches his suit jacket across the back of the sofa, and loosens his tie. “Liza mostly came up with the Jefferson piece, though, so we’ve got her to thank.” 

He’ll shower and get into something more comfortable soon enough, but as it turns out, a sandwich and a bag of Doritos can only sustain someone for so long. When he looks in the pantry, an entire box of Fruit Loops is conspicuously absent. Which,  _ really,  _ it’s one thing for  _ Peggy  _ to fill his entire house with sugar she can pick at, because she’s more or less solely powered by it. John hopes that Alex at  _ least  _ found the tupperware leftovers in the freezer, and got some semblance of nutrients. But, hey, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. He reaches around at the very back of the pantry until he hits gold, grabbing his hidden box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“Sleep well?” He asks, as he’s pouring cereal into a clean bowl. Alex laughs somewhat sheepishly.

“Uh, yeah. I haven’t been here  _ all _ day though–went back to the hotel when I woke up, to change and stuff, and found out that they charge by the hour for wifi.”   
  
John makes a disgusted face. “In 2015?”   
  
Alex throws out a hand. “I  _ know!  _ It was ridiculous! So I just sorta, came back here. I brought some stuff, chargers and books, y’know, but I put my bag in the other room, didn’t wanna make a mess of your place-”   
  
All at once, John realizes that Alex has remembered how unconventional this is, and that he’s trying to excuse the fact that he’s been staying all day in his house.

“Dude,” John shrugs as he’s pouring the milk. “you can sleep in my guest bedroom if you want. I mean, I’ve been reliably informed that it’s way more comfortable than the sofa. Plus, wifi, food, and TV.”

Alex is still looking at him warily when he plops down on the sofa next to him. “You make a fair point,” he says. “Are you sure, though? I mean, I’m here the rest of the week, remember? I don’t wanna...” He trails off, making a vague gesture at the apartment. John’s pretty sure he gets the gist of it.   
  
“I’m gone most of the day, dude.  _ Someone  _ should get some use out of this place.”   
  
This seems to satisfy Alex, who settles back into the sofa.    
  
“Hold on,” he says, peering over at John’s bowl. “Where did you get  _ those? _ ”


	9. Chapter 9

That night, as well as Wednesday, go by more or less the same. John showers and gets changed, they sort-of-but-not-quite-cuddle while they watch TV, John actually remembers to get up and brush his teeth and go to bed, and Alex disappears into the guest room with half-lidded eyes. The next day, Alex has already been at his Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which is pretty disheartening for John at that time in the morning. Still, he goes through his routine, and is out the door while Alex is still yelling at NBC news. 

In the office, they sit in various stages of painful writer’s block for a few hours, Herc shows them some pictures of his cats, John huddles in a corner with Horse for a while, hiding from a lint-roller wielding Intern Jaime, they eat unspeakably unhealthy fast food for lunch, and then groan about not knowing what to write some more. It’s just John’s luck that their  _ entire  _ writing team exists in that tenuous balance of procrastination where they do their best work at the  _ last possible minute.  _   
They do manage to draw up the script by rehearsal time, the show goes by as usual, Eliza does  _ beautifully  _ on her first correspondent piece, John has his post-show cuddle with Horse, works for another hour or so, and then heads home, where he promptly collapses face first on the sofa. Alex, as ever, is writing something on his laptop, but he spares a moment to pat John’s head sympathetically.   
  
John appreciates the sentiment.

When he doesn’t make any move to get up, Alex just keeps patting his hair, starting to thread his fingers through it rhythmically, and from what John can see by craning his neck, Alex is still looking at his laptop screen, typing with his other hand.   
Well, it feels  _ really  _ nice, so he’s not inclined to question. 

* * *

 

He is, apparently, inclined to fall asleep, because Alex wakes him up an hour later and asks if he wants to go to bed, or get changed, or something. He gets out of his suit, and chats with Alex on the sofa for another half-hour or so about a bill being proposed in North Carolina, before he starts to drift off again. 

  
“Night, Alex,” he waves as he walks to the bedroom.   
  
“Goodnight, John.”   


* * *

 

* * *

 

The news is muted this morning, though Alex keeps sending it baleful glares, like he can sense when one of the ‘experts’ says something stupid in an interview. John wouldn’t be surprised. In any case, the news is muted because Alex is all questions this morning, interrogating him over the last two bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. John reminds himself to stop off at the store on the way home–he’d rather starve than switch to Fruit Loops.

“Realistically,” John says between mouthfuls, “you could show up ten minutes before your cue, like, during the commercial break, and be fine. It’s happened before. Freddy or someone will give you a brief of what questions you’ll be asked, and you just come out, and improv the rest.”

“What kind of stuff  _ will  _ you be asking me? I mean, sometimes you do the full comedic-oriented ones, and sometimes you just, straight up  _ tear people apart. _ ” Alex’s eyes are lit up, and he grins at John. “It’s kind of amazing. Still, I’d prefer to have some idea of what I’m in for.”

John waves his hand vaguely. “Eh, Peggy and I will write ‘em up during lunch today. It’ll probably be a funny one–not much to argue about, when we agree on most stuff.”   
  
“Except your terrible taste in reality shows,” Alex grumbles under his breath.    
  
Somehow, over the course of two days, the argument over whether ‘Naked and Afraid’ constitutes a reality show, and whether it’s halfway watchable, has become well worn. Nevertheless, it lasts them about five minutes, until John’s phone starts to ring. 

“Hey, John?” Herc says as soon as he answers the call, and the nervous tone immediately puts John on edge.

“What’s up, Herc?”   
  
Herc hesitates for a few beats before saying, “Well, uh, Quince, my cat sitter, he called this morning. He’s kinda sick, can’t come in today.” John lets out a relieved sigh.

  
“Oh, alright. You need to bring in Mama?” Quince had canceled on Herc before while Mama had been pregnant, so they’d had her in the office a few times in the last couple of months, so they could keep an eye on her. It helped that Mama was Horse’s mother as well. He didn’t want to think about the horror stories Herc had told him about bringing an unfamiliar cat into a home. 

Across the table, Alex gives him an odd look. Well, he supposes it would sound strange, out of context.   
  
“No,” Herc says, “Mama will be fine on her own. It’s the kittens I’m worried about. They’re weaned and everything, but I don’t wanna leave them alone all day. Most of ‘em haven’t been sold, and I’m worried they might fall off of something, or..

John frowns, eyebrows drawing together as he thinks. “Will Horse be alright, if they’re in the office?”   
“Yeah, should be. They’ll all smell like Mama, and we’d probably keep the kittens in the writer’s room, just to be safe.” Herc had spent almost an entire day meticulously kitten-proofing the room a while back. It somehow had the added benefit of being mostly intern-proof too. 

  
“Cool, then go on ahead.”   


* * *

 

“Just to clarify,” Alex says, as he’s tugging his shoes on, “there are, at this moment,  _ kittens  _ in your office, and if I come to the office, I can like,  _ hold  _ the kittens?”

John, still struggling to jump into his socks, nods. 

“ _ Wonderful. _ ”

* * *

 

Nobody blinks an eye when Alex follows John into the writers room, though Intern Fitz had done quite a double take out in the hallway. The cast and crew of  _ Late Night  _ had seen all manner of beasts walk through those doors. A somewhat overworked politician was no cause for alarm. Besides, most everyone was distracted by the large cat carrier sitting in the middle of the table, on top of a fuzzy purple blanket. The original litter had been seven kittens, and since then, two had been sold. By that math, there are now five kittens somewhere in his office. Herc gives his kittens little neon collars, to tell them apart, so John looks for bright colors in the otherwise mostly beige room.

Two of them, in green and purple collars, have been commandeered by Intern Lyndon and Intern Jaime, who are sitting in a corner making quiet but delighted noises, even though Jaime’s internal conflict between their hatred of cat hair and the very fluffy kitten in their lap is plain on their face.

One with an orange collar is fast asleep on top of a shelf by the door, curled up in between a French-to-English dictionary and The Script. John tries not to think about how it managed to get up there. 

The other two are still on the table, surrounded by Herc, Peggy, Freddy, and Eliza. Herc is holding the one with a blue collar, while one with a pink collar is rolling around on the blanket, play-fighting with Liza’s fingers. Freddy waves at them, but gets no response, because Hamilton has already made a beeline for the kittens. Herc, Peggy, and Liza seem to take this in stride, and just continue their conversation.

Well, most conversations with Peggy tend to be less of a conversation and more of an interrogation.

“So these guys are purebred Maine Coons too?” She reaches out a finger at Pink, who gnaws at it with tiny, tiny teeth. 

Herc nods. “Yep, same mom and dad as Horse.”   
  
Peggy grins. “So, the same floof.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” he replies, scratching at the tufts of white fluff on Blue’s cheeks. “These guys are gonna have little lion manes, pretty soon.”   
  
Peggy gets a bit of a Look, and John is immediately on edge. Peggy can, given enough time, get anyone to tell her anything. This is useful for interviews, and terrifying in literally every other situation. “So, what are their names?” She asks. Herc frowns and shakes his head.   
“I don’t name ‘em, Peg, that’s what their collars are for. I can’t get too attached, and it’d be bad for them to go to a new home and start getting called a different name...” He trails off when he sees that Peggy is staring at him flatly, one eyebrow raised for good measure. Freddy is shaking his head sadly, and even Liza looks distinctly unimpressed. This is because everyone and their grandmother knows perfectly well that Herc gets overly attached to every cat that comes within three feet of him, and names  _ every single one.  _

He looks like he’s about to argue for a few seconds before he sighs in defeat, shoulders slumping slightly.

He points to Green and Purple, over in the corner. “Snuffles and J.J.,” to Orange on the bookshelf, “Tails,” to Pink, “Paddy,” and finally, hefting Blue in his hands, “and I haven’t gotten one for him yet. Nothing sticks. I was thinking, I dunno, Percy?”   
  
Peggy shakes her head. “Herc, no, you can’t name the cat a People name.”

Alex squints at Peggy, an odd look crossing his face. It takes John a few seconds to place it as the look of utter defiance he gets during debates before making a retaliation to something he vehemently disagrees with.

Before any of them can react, Alex leans forward and gently plucks Blue out of Herc’s hands, cradles him close to his chest, looks Peggy dead in the eye, and says, “His name is Philip, and he is my son.”   
  
John counts two breaths of dead silence.   
  
Peggy snorts, then groans, “Hamilton,  _ no. _ ”   
John immediately counters, “Oh my god, Hamilton,  _ yes. _ ”   
Eliza winces, saying quietly, “Phillip is my  _ dad _ ’s name.”   
  
Alex nods, taking this in stride. “It’s a tribute! Philip Schuyler-Hamilton.”

* * *

 

And now John has a cat.   
Well, no, now  _ Alex  _ has a cat, but it’ll be in his house, and Alex amended the name to “Philip Schuyler-Laurens-Hamilton,” so he figures he basically has a cat.

It all boiled down to Herc asking if Alex actually was interested in a cat, Alex aggressively agreeing, and almost immediately handing over four hundred bucks. Purebred Maine Coons were expensive, but hey, the Secretary of Treasury knew a thing or two about cash, apparently.    
Of course, there was the dilemma about Alex not going home for another four days, which was solved by John offering up his apartment to the cat for the weekend.    
  
Hey, there was already  _ one  _ Hamilton staying in it.

And now John has a cat, and they’re going to take a cab down to the pet store during lunch so that they can load up on the essentials. Alex will take them back to John’s place and get everything set up before he gets changed for the interview, but Philip will stay in the office until they take him home after the show.

For about the past half hour, Alex has been leaning back in one of the office chairs, feet up on the table and laptop perched on his thighs, while Philip is curled up asleep in his lap. It’s absolutely adorable, and just about everyone has snapped a picture of it, but they can’t post it anywhere on the internet unless they want to spoil the surprise. John contents himself with sending it to his sister, who sends back some unintelligible gibberish with a lot of exclamation points, which basically sums up how John feels about the matter.

Intern Jaime has been hovering in Alex’s orbit for about the last 20 minutes of that half hour, pretty obviously wanting to say something, but chickening out and finding something else to do at the last minute.

Intern Jaime is the most blatantly obvious Poli Sci major who has ever lived.   
  


Finally, they approach, holding the cat that John  _ thinks  _ is Snuffles. “Uh, Secretary Hamilton? Do you have a couple of minutes?”

Alex  _ hmm _ s, looking up at them. “What’s up?”   
  
Jaime shifts, uncertain. “I’m working on my thesis, and, um, I was wondering if you’d be okay with answering a few questions about the foreign policy summit that’s planned for next year?”

  
As soon as Alex’s eyes light up, John thinks,  _ oh dear.  _ In the interests of not bringing the wrath of the president down upon his soul, John has tried to keep the political discourse in the house to a minimum, and has managed to do a pretty good job of distracting Alex from the work he’s not technically supposed to be doing. They’ve only talked briefly about the summit, and the general agreement was that it was a disaster that Jefferson was going to turn into a shitstorm.   
  
Intern Jaime has just opened the floodgates.   


* * *

 

John’s list of things he did not think he would find cute is rapidly growing. The newest addition: Alexander Hamilton explaining complex political relations to a small crowd of young adults. Jaime had been listening with rapt attention, asking questions, and scribbling down notes, but Alex had managed to capture the attention of Intern Lyndon and Intern Michelle, as well as Peggy and Eliza.   
  
It wasn’t hard to see why; while Alexander was erratic and jumpy in his movements, his voice was almost melodical, managing to deliver a rundown of international treaties with the cadence and rhythm of a rapper, or a spoken word poet. It made for an absolutely enrapturing performance, one that was almost impossible to look away from, whether it was fully comprehensible or not. It helped that he drew out his explanations, not quite dumbing his subject down, but laying it out neatly in front of him, plain to see and understand. He’d probably make a good teacher, though John shuddered to think what Alex would set for a minimum word count.

John takes a picture of Alex in his office chair, gesturing wildly, his students sitting on the floor at his feet. Peggy had started that, plopping down and saying, “Criss-cross applesauce, kids.”

* * *

 

**LAURENS:  
** [IMAGE ATTACHED]  
story time!

**MARTHA:  
** “hi my name is alexander dark’ness dementia hamilton way and i have long ebony black hair (thats how i got my name)  with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and deep dark eyes like the void and a lot of people tell me I look like george washington (an: if u don't know who he is get da hell out of here!)”

**LAURENS:** **  
** “a lot of democratic republicans stared at me. i put up my middle finger at them.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Is it normal for nothing to get written in three hours?” Alex asks him in the cab, while John is looking over the supplies list. If they’re sitting closer than is perhaps strictly necessary, well. It is  _ very  _ cold.   
  
“Yep, absolutely. In fact, we’ll probably still be working when you get back.”   
  
The concept of Not Writing is clearly foreign and incredibly stressful to Alex, so John gives his knee a comforting pat, and leaves his hand resting on Alex’s leg.    
You know. For solidarity.    
When Alex grabs his hand, he thinks it’s probably to bat it away, but he ends up just sort of... holding it, still just resting on Alex’s thigh. Which is fine, honestly, John doesn’t need two hands to hold a piece of paper.

* * *

 

Alex squints at the bag in his hands. “Does this matter? Why the fuck does this matter? Why does it matter if the litter is aerated? Is the clay better? Aren’t they all just rocks? What the fuck is the difference? Do I need to make a fucking Japanese rock garden for Philip to piss in?” He looks at John with desperate eyes. “ _What the fuck?_ ”  
  
John, helpless and without answers, shrugs.  


* * *

 

They had everything checked off of the list fairly quickly, but then they found the toy aisle. John supposes it’s easier to support the gratuitous spoiling of a kitten when it’s not his money. He does regret it later, though, when he’s carrying the bags down the street.   
  
So, he helps Alex load up into the cab with his bags containing about fifteen too many things, and then catches the next one back to the office. He only takes a single bag with him, this one containing the tiniest tag they could find in the store, barely the size of a nickel, with “Philip” engraved on one side and Alex’s number on the other. Philip would probably be an indoor cat, Alex had said, but better safe than sorry.   
Despite how tiny it is, when John clips it onto Philip’s collar, it still hangs down like a medallion on his puffy chest. It makes a little jingling sound when he walks, and John swears to god that at least one person tears up from how utterly fucking cute it is.

While one of the writers is pitching a piece to him, he sits on the floor, and pulls Philip into his lap. J.J. waddles over and climbs on his knee. Herc gently places Snuffles on his shoulder, and Tails on his thigh. To top it all off, Peggy deposits Paddy onto his head.    
  
“Doing alright down there, John?” Liza asks wryly from the doorway. John smiles up at her, a look of pure bliss on his face. He holds up Philip in response. He’s sitting on the floor, covered in kittens, and life is  _ great.  _   
Peggy snaps a picture.

* * *

 

* * *

 

They actually do manage to get the ball rolling not long after John gets back, so they’re just putting the final touches on the script when John gets a text from Alex, reading  _ ‘omw back’ _ .

John sends back  _ ‘Ok cool i’ll probably be in rehearsal when u get here but fitz will get u to the green room!’  _ before continuing his totally productive argument with Intern Michelle about the benefits of in-office yoga mats.  
  
He wonders, sometimes, how much of his work would make sense out of context. Fuck that, how much of it would make sense  _ in  _ context?   


* * *

 

John has been resisting doing the Fonz pose at the camera as it swoops down, and today, his resolve crumbles. Other than that, though, the show starts off nice and normal, better than normal, even, considering he’s already gotten a nice laugh out of the audience.    
“Hey! Good evening! Thanks for joining us! Welcome to  _ Late Night, _ I’m John Laurens, we’ve got a fun show tonight! Later we’ve got possibly the  _ best  _ guest of my career, and I’m sure you’ll agree, but I’m not gonna spoil the surprise now.” He waves away the  _ boo _ s and disappointed  _ aw _ s of the crowd, continuing, “Let’s start tonight with Congress: five hundred and thirty five people who make up a less productive government than the five hundred and thirty five ants living in this studio’s utility closet.”   
  
_ The peppy CNN anchor is back with avengeance, still sounding very excited about the matter at hand. “Some conflict in the Capitol Building yesterday, after a meeting of the House Committee on Agriculture went awry.” The video starts to play, a muted clip of two men clearly locked in heated debate, while the anchor continues to speak. “Here on the left, you can see Virginia Senator John Marshall, a Federalist, arguing with Rhode Island Senator Christopher Ellery, a Democratic-Republican.” _ __  
_  
_ __ Marshall stands, still yelling, and walks over to Ellery. He tips Ellery’s chair over, dumping the somewhat tubby man onto the floor with a loud squawk. Ellery wastes no time in grabbing Marshall’s ankle, dragging him onto the ground, where the two men begin to wrestle. The clip ends.

John laughs along with the audience for a few moments, eyebrows raised and eyes wide in awe. “Holy  _ shit,”  _ he says, after the room is quiet again. “Okay, okay, there’s clearly a  _ lot  _ to unpack here. Let’s start with the fact that we just watched two old white Congressmen straight up  _ brawling _ on the floor, and quickly follow it up with the fact that the most exciting thing to happen in Congress  _ all year  _ was during a meeting for the Committee on fucking  _ Agriculture. _ Holy  _ shit!”  _

A little box pops up by John’s head on-screen, playing the clip. “Now, there are a lot of really,  _ really  _ wonderful things about this video, but my favourite thing has to be this guy.” He waits patiently while the clip pans out, eventually zooming in on one fresh-faced Congressman sitting towards the front of the room. “This kid is watching the whole thing looking like he’s going to shit his pants, which is yeah, pretty funny, but if you keep looking at him then you’ll notice that he’s actually stress eating gummy bears, like, the  _ whole time.”  _ Sure enough, after a few seconds, it’s clear that the young man has grabbed something bright coloured from under the desk, and has shoved it in his mouth. “It gets faster once the actual fight starts! I think this dude might’ve escaped from an infomercial, I mean…”   
  
He sits back and lets the big screen take over, featuring Intern Fitz’s near-flawless infomercial-voice.  _ Theatre kids. _

“Tired of  _ this  _ happening to  _ you?”  _ The clip of the fight plays again, the horrified reactions of the other senators in the background clear. “Then you need  _ Jackoff Snax’s Stressy Bears!  _ Like gummy bears,  _ Stressy Bears  _ are a delicious snack, but designed specifically for the purpose of providing comfort during stressful situations outside of your control. Don’t be this guy:” The clip shows one of the other senators, cringing. “Be  _ this  _ guy!” The clip once more shows gummy bears guy, eyes wide and frantically shovelling gummy bears into his mouth.

_ “Stressy Bears  _ also come as worms, dinosaurs, or small people! Pick them up at your local Walgreens! Or don’t, if you’re too stressed about talking to the cashier at the checkout. In that case, good luck.”

* * *

 

“Hercules Mulligan and Horse, everybody, we’ll be right back!”   
  
The second Freddy gives him a thumbs up from off screen, John slumps into his seat, head rolling back with an exaggerated groan. Three minutes until they were back on. Three minutes until the interview with Alexander Hamilton.

Having long mastered the art of falling asleep on any mostly-solid object, John often dozes off during the second commercial break, much to the marvel and frustration of the makeup team frantically trying to touch up his foundation. Tonight, though, he’s got a strange, if not unpleasant, twinging feeling, a tight ball of anticipation sitting in his chest. Despite the fact that he’s literally been  _ living  _ with Alex for most of this week, John is  _ really  _ excited for this interview.    
  
One of the makeup crew pats him on the shoulder and declares him good to go, so John grabs a bottle of water from under his desk and  _ chugs _ . Eliza, the pure and wonderful soul that she is, often writes in gags that involve water, allowing him to take a drink mid-show, but they can’t exactly do it every night. So, John ends up downing as much as humanly possible during commercial breaks.  _ Especially  _ before the interview. Someone in crew signals the one minute mark to him, and he acknowledges it with a small wave. He reflexively glances over at the entrance where guests walk on stage, and almost starts when he sees Alex standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the divider wall that keeps the audience and cameras from seeing him before he actually walks on, and when he catches John’s eye, he grins and wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously, almost making John choke on his water. The crowd, absolute bastards that they are, have the audacity to laugh at this. 

He has to focus on not inhaling water into his lungs for a few moments, and by the time he’s breathing normally again, it’s go-time.

* * *

 

“Hey, welcome back, everybody!” John drums his hands on the desk, grins at the crowd. “Our guest tonight: a  _ very  _ good friend of the show, lawyer, author, loudmouth, and Treasury Secretary of the United States of America: Alexander Hamilton, everyone!” 

John may or may not take a moment to appreciate Alex’s outfit as he’s making his way over to the desk. For the briefest second, John relates to Thomas Jefferson’s complaints about Alex’s extravagant dress-style on a personal level because hot  _ damn,  _ that suit should be illegal. Sharply cut black pants that cling to his hips, and a deep blue waistcoat to match. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to the elbows, and John does  _ not  _ stare at his forearms. Nope. Not at  _ all.  _

He flat-out ignores the part of his mind that  _ really  _ wants to grab that tie.

The cheering of the crowd is almost deafening, and Alex smiles and waves, basking in the attention. He’s bouncing, actually  _ bouncing  _ a little on the balls of his feet as he walks over, and John doesn’t bother to hide his smile, just hopes that it looks less sappy than it feels. When Alex reaches the desk, as per usual for guests, he shakes John’s hand, but they end up going in for a hug, which is,  _ whoah _ . It’s a lot of things, which are causing John’s brain to short circuit just a little but mostly it’s very warm, and very  _ nice. _ The cheering goes up a few octaves until John’s ears start ringing, but he still hears the quiet “Hey,” from Alex with perfect clarity.

Someone wolf-whistles, and they’re both still laughing when they pull away to sit down. 

The interview chair is a glorified office chair, meaning that it’s a wheely chair. John is both amazed and disappointed that nobody has actually spun in it before today, but when Hamilton plops down, he spins it around twice before finally settling with the chair turned forward, leaning an elbow on John’s desk with one ankle slung across his knee. 

“Hey, welcome to the show!” he greets politely, like Alex hasn’t been living with him for a week and they didn’t both adopt a kitten together this morning. Alex nods, giving his line. “Thanks for having me.”

The audience has finally settled down, though the energy hums through the room, buzzing with quiet noise. John leans forward on his forearms, fingers laced. “So, how is it, being back in New York?” Freddy had given him a list of questions, and John would probably use it as a starting-point, but the general agreement had been that he and Alex had enough chemistry to sustain an interview through mainly adlibbing. John had not at all appreciated the tone Freddy had said  _ ‘chemistry _ ’ with. Or any of the inappropriate eyebrow waggling from his interns. 

Alex has, John has discovered, a way of conveying inappropriate eyebrow waggling without actually changing his expression. It’s this little  _ glint  _ in his eyes, a sort of miniaturized version of Peggy’s ‘Time to Start Shit’ face. It’s almost impressive, actually, and John’s sure he’ll appreciate it more when he’s not half-shitting himself wondering what that look means, and if Alex has something planned. 

“Well,” Alex begins, settling back into his seat, but still leaning on the desk, “I’ve been meaning to visit again ever since I got your postcard.” And of everything, literally  _ everything  _ that John had expected to come out of Alex’s mouth, he thinks that that might’ve been the very last thing on the list. He had forgotten about the postcard almost as soon as he’d sent it, half-expecting that the White House had some kind of mail filtering system to ward off letters from potential suitors and weirdos. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least, considering how irritatingly attractive most of the current administration was.

But–oh,  _ god, _ Alex had brought the postcard  _ with  _ him, tucked into the inside of his waistcoat, and John was absolutely going to die. He makes a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a laugh, burying his face in his hands, and more or less collapsing onto the desk. “Noooooooooo,” he whines, and he can feel his ears burning, and Alex, fuck the bastard, is laughing at him. 

John peeks up from inbetween his fingers, and sees Alex holding out the postcard for the audience to  _ aww  _ at. There are a couple of tiny holes in the top, like it’s been pinned to a corkboard, and John feels a little bit like the fifth grader who’s just found out that their crush has kept their love letter.

Never mind that, John  _ is  _ that fifth grader, on a molecular level, staring at the back of Alex’s head in math class and doodling “Mr. John Hamilton” surrounded by hearts on his scripts. 

“I figured,” Alex continues, like John isn’t having a small crisis a few inches away from his elbow, “that I’d better get you something in return.”   
  
“What did you do.” John deadpans as best as he can manage while in crisis. When Alex starts to reach behind his chair, John shoots up so quickly his vision swims, but he still points at Freddy with deadly accuracy. “What did  _ you _ do?” he demands, getting only a smug, self-satisfied grin in response. If Freddy wasn’t the only one who knew what the fuck was going on in their entire studio, John would’ve fired him. He’ll probably settle for throwing paper balls at his head during their next meeting.

Alex pulls out one of those cardboard gift boxes you can buy at dollar stores during December. The Santa design and little green bow are telltale signs of Peggy’s handiwork, and he suppresses a sigh. It’s about the size of a flat backpack, but a bit heavier than he expects when Alex hands it over. He shoots Alex his best imitation of the Skeptical Peggy Eyebrow, but Alex just keeps smiling like the cat that got the cream, so he just gets it over with and pulls the top off of the box. 

He barks out a laugh when he sees  _ WASHINGTON D.C.  _ in bold black letters over stop sign-red fabric, wonders what tourist shop Alex picked this up in, but when he actually lifts the hoodie out of the box, he almost freezes. “ _ Dude,” _ he manages, because this is  _ nice,  _ thick and heavy and holy shit, it feels like he’s holding a  _ cloud.  _ John’s not sure when he managed to become a master of suppression, but he manages to gently shove the little screaming thing going  _ ‘he got you a gift he got you a  _ **_really nice gift_ ** _ oh god how do we even process this’ _ into a corner with the Unfortunate Crush, and goes with his first line of defence: aggressive showmanship.

“Oh my  _ god, _ ” he giggles, probably sounding way too excited about a hoodie, but the audience has been gushing and  _ aww _ ing for about the last three minutes, and they’ll probably eat it up. Alex is still smiling, and John doesn’t want to know if he’s imagining the pensive edge it has to it, like he’s waiting for a reaction. “Wait,” John says, before shrugging the hoodie over his head. 

It is  _ really  _ thick, which is going to be absolutely fantastic once they’re out in the freezing cold, but under the bright lights of the studio, he feels like a sweaty, incubated egg. He maybe should not have done this, but hey, he dug his grave, and now he’s going to lie in it.   
  
For professionalism, he untucks his tie and straightens it in the center of the hoodie. 

Both the crowd and Alex are laughing now, with Alex giving short, high-pitched giggles into his fist. John looks at him and says, completely deadpan, “I am never taking this off.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i just went on a massive posting spree but thats all he wrote, i promise  
> this fic is, unfortunately, on permanent hiatus bc i started to write it and then personal stuff happened, and then i just started writing a longfic for another fandom, so long story short this aint my current project  
> consider this a christmas present, though (if youve seen the original post and were interested in the fic)  
> im not writing for it currently but if u wanna talk abt the late night au, u can find me on tumblr @subcorax
> 
> happy holidays <3


End file.
